


Gallantry or: The Prince and the Missing Soldier

by ExpatGirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Fairy Tale Elements, Kings & Queens, M/M, Pining, Romance, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 10:24:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18467026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExpatGirl/pseuds/ExpatGirl
Summary: It's been five years since King John disappeared and the bloody, generation-long war  finally ended. Now, Dean's about to be crowned king and he knows he must choose a queen. But he can't stop thinking about his long-lost love, one of the many casualties of the fighting.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weboverload](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weboverload/gifts).



>  
> 
>  
> 
> I wrote this entirely on twitter. 
> 
> I haven't edited it at all, except to correct some spelling/tense issues. 
> 
> It's pure, unadulterated, wish-fulling AU sugar, with no pretenses of being anything else. I'm not going to break this up into 280 character chunks on here but I'll put it in several short chapters to try and maintain some sense of its origin. Enjoy!

Castiel Milton was his family's last son; Michael fell, literally, when he struck down his most beloved brother, Lucifer, on the edge of a cliff. Gabriel sustained a mortal wound and disappeared. Raphael was disowned and imprisoned for planning a coup.

And so, when Castiel went missing, all those years ago, after some of the most intense fighting in living memory, everyone knew he was dead. He was a ferocious fighter and a brilliant tactician but there were none left alive after Azazel and Crowley joined forces.

So Dean wept in private over Castiel and in public over John, and put Sam's education above all things, doing what his father had failed to do when Queen Mary died. Sam was the second son and so had a chance for freedom Dean knew was never his.

And Dean plays the part—he courts many, many women, throws legendary parties, travels relentlessly around the kingdom quelling rebellions and hunting down brigands and those who sympathized with Azazel and Lucifer.

But now it's five years on, and the kingdom is impatient, as kingdoms always are. Sam has finished his education, a prince and a scholar, with his warrior days behind him. Rumor has it he's seeking the hand of a merchant's daughter, from Leahy.

(In the past, a match like that would be unthinkable, but then again, Sam is the second son, and the War, which took so many, many lives, made people somehow more pragmatic and more romantic.)

Five years. John can be officially buried—though, of course, his body was never found—as Castiel was, the year previously, in the quiet corner of the Milton family's churchyard, close to the river, where he and Dean spent so many happy hours. He visits Castiel’s grave before he goes on one of his campaigns (each one more dangerous than the last, each time, more reckless), and after, beaten and bloodied but still alive.

Per custom, the week after John's burial is Dean's coronation. They build the King's Pyre in the square and burn John's robes in lieu of his body. He was a harsh man and king, born and died in war, but his sacrifice ended it, an so the people revere him, if not love him. (It's a sentiment his sons share.)

The kingdom mourns. Hunter-kings from other countries pay their respects, queens and empresses send gifts, and every flag flies at half-mast. The palace is draped in black, and remains that way until the last of the smoke from the Pyre clears.

And now Dean faces the real question. He'll be King—for real, actual King—and he'll be expected to marry. Those foreign dignitaries aren't solely here out of respect for John; they know Dean's reputation as a warrior, Sam's as a negotiator, the kingdom's wealth.

He'll have a year, at most, where he can wave off the question with excuses about settling into the role. But he's been acting in John's place for so long now that people will see it for the lie it is.

Lisa is kind and strong, and she inherited her late husband's land. He's almost certain Ben is his, and he loves her, sort of, but...

Cassie is married, of course she is, she's a once-in-a-lifetime woman. He should give her husband a title.

Anna. Anna is...

Anna is the closest Dean will get to Castiel, in life. (They sought comfort in each other once, when it was clear he wasn't coming back, when it was clear she was the last of her siblings; maybe they could do it again. She has his intensity, his cleverness.)

He doesn't want to. He wants Castiel. Yet it's the only possible match he can bear to consider, as he watches the smoke die day by day He'll put it to her at his coronation. But first he'll ask permission. Not from her father, who can't even pretend to care, but from Cas.

On the third night, the Pyre has burned to nothing. The smoke is gone. The King is dead, long live the King. In the morning they'll sweep up the ashes, change the shrouds on the statues from black to white, and hoist the flags. And then the preparations will begin.

Dean steals out of the palace, intending to visit Castiel's grave. But he's waylaid by a sudden, violent storm and has to spend the night in an old hunting cabin on the edge of the Woods.

He's restless. Soaked to the skin and cold, he builds a fire with what little kindling is left in the hearth; strips to his underwear and lays his clothes out to dry. Falls asleep, somehow, under an old blanket, and dreams of Castiel's face....

Dean wakes some time later from the creaking of the rafters. He makes his way to the window and peers into the shapeless dark. Then, a fork of lightning splits the sky, and the dark takes the shape of...Cas. Cas, there, at his window, looking at him with reproachful eyes.

Just as quickly as it appeared, though, the vision of Cas vanishes. Dean can't breathe, can't think, can only run into the storm and call out. Nothing but the thunder answers him, and eventually he goes back inside and stares into the fire until morning.

He rides to the graveyard at dawn. Sam and Bobby will look for him before long, and they'll know where to find him—but he can't bear to be found.

It's quiet, with the smell of clear cold water and damp earth. The crocuses are blooming. (Cas always did like those.)

Someone has laid a bouquet of rosemary tied with black ribbon on the gravestone. It could only be Anna; Castiel's father has withdrawn so far into his own mind he might as well not exist.

But Dean is alone, for now, and so he takes a breath and says: "Hi, Cas."

"I thought I went crazy when you d—" He falters. "Didn't come back. Now, I'm sure I have." He sits, resting his aching back against the headstone. It's easier if he can't see it. He picks up the rosemary, toying with it.

He can't bring himself to ask the question he's come here to ask. Instead, he says, "I still think about the day we met, you know. I thought I was done for. Hell, I WAS done for! No one comes out of that pit alive." He shivered, and told himself it was the early-morning chill.

"But you did the impossible. Because you're you. And because...you're a dumb son of a bitch who doesn't know when to quit." He laughs, or thinks he does "Anyway, sorry for trying to stab you. I was a little on edge."

This, this is easier. This is almost—it's almost enough.

The morning grows late, but he continues to talk. He sets aside the memories of the battles they fought, side-by-side (though there are many) and instead reminisces on other things: meals shared over campfires, late-night conversations, fishing in the nearby river...

The first time they kissed, almost without meaning to; the second time, almost daring each other; the third, with complete purpose. How things changed after that; how Dean became more himself, like part of him had been in hiding until then.

"I need you to understand. You know I've been with a lot of people but you...You were different. I was happy, like I've never been. And I know what my dad would say: 'Your happiness for the good of all the people in the kingdom, no question.' But why? Why'd it have to be you?"

And so he asks the question, stumbling, but he does. He promises to be gentle, and faithful, and reliable. In short: a good husband. The kind of husband a brother would want for a beloved sister.

"So, I...I need you to tell me if it's allowed. If it would make you happy."

He waits. He knows how to read the signs: the flight paths of birds, the sound of thunder; a fox may bring tidings.

But today is still and cloudless. "Cas," he says after a while. "You once said I had no faith, but man, I'm praying now. I need you to hear me."

Dean needs to leave, but he feels, for once, that he's being ignored. He sighs and walks a little way down the path toward the river.

There. In the bare spring mud, where only a handful of snowdrops bloom, is a single yellow daffodil. He stops dead.

Daffodil, the national flower; meaning chivalry, meaning rebirth. But standing alone, it could also mean sorrow and lost love. For once, his training seems to fail him. If only Pamela were still alive; she could ask directly.

But Pamela is dead, just like Cas, and John, and so many others. Dean will have to figure this out alone. He exhales sharply, nods once, and then leaves the graveyard without looking back.

Sam and Bobby intercept him halfway through the woods.

"Boy, don't you ever leave a note?" Bobby never was one to stand on ceremony.

"What's the point?" asks Dean. "You knew where I'd be."

“The point is, your Royal Idjit, that someone might kidnap you and we wouldn't know it."

Sam laughs at that, clearly imaging the ordeal a would-be kidnapper would have trying to overpower Dean, and the even greater ordeal of putting up with his personality in close quarters. Bobby glares at him, and he disguises the laugh as a cough.

"Yeah, Dean, uh. Better safe than sorry."

Dean doesn't say that 'sorry' might as well be his middle name. "I'll try to bear that in mind," he says instead. "You got anything to eat? I'm starving."

Sam rolls his eyes, but produces a pastry wrapped in a cloth from his bag.

The week preceding the Coronation passes in a blur. Dean is weighed and measured by an army of tailors, glovers, hosiers, cordwainers, and other people who make items of clothing he's never even heard of before.

He writes to Anna's father personally, inviting him and his daughter to the Coronation. It's Anna who replies, of course. She sends her father's regrets and her own acceptance. "I have," her letter runs, "something of my brother's that may serve as a gift."

Dean wants to scream.


	2. Chapter 2

Now, in a seldom-visited corner of the kingdom, a place filled with streams and lakes, less touched by the War than other places, there lived a baker and his wife. They were famous for their magnificent cakes and delicious bread.

Indeed the pastries that grace the breakfast table each morning are from this very baker and his wife. They're Dean's favorite; they remind him of the pies his mother used to give him.  Each box is plain, with a simple wax seal, bearing the letters EA. He unwraps them with glee.

Unfortunately, Charlie—who was, until that moment, his favorite person and adviser—reminds him that his Coronation clothes are very, very expensive and very, very closely tailored. She puts him on a strict no-pastry diet for the week leading up the Coronation.

"This..." Dean sputters, as Charlie steals his apple pastry and replaces it with an un-pastried apple, "this is treason! I could have you banished, you know. Or worse! Revoke your library access."

"Dean," she chides, taking a bite of the pastry. 

"Sorry."

"It's just a week."

"Did Sam put you up to this?" Dean asks, as the man in question walks in, and promptly walks  out again.

"I'll never tell." She hugs him before heading to her office. "Besides, I may have ordered something from them for the big day."

"Really?"

She smiles. "Eat your apple!"

The preparations take on an increasingly frantic pace. Dean keeps his mother's ring, sapphire and emerald on a silver band, in his pocket, ready for his proposal. He finds himself clutching it like a good-luck charm as he stares out his window at the comings and goings.

Carts laden with every imaginable good stream into the city. Dean tries to forget that this is all for him. He's always hated being the center of attention, unless it was Cas' attention. 

He tells himself to get over it.

Two days before the Coronation, Anna arrives.She curtsies, which he hates and tells her to stop. "Alright," she laughs, and kisses him chastely on the cheek. "A present for you," she says, pressing a silver medal into his hand. Castiel's amulet—the one Dean gave him. He wore it at every battle, except one.

Suddenly Dean can't ask her.

He thanks her, has her shown to her room; then he puts on his most battered clothes and steals out to walk along the town walls.

At sunset he sees it: a sturdy old cart, laden with flour sacks. On the back is painted a daffodil, and the letters EA.

Dean feels excitement rather than vague dread for the first time in days. He opts to follow them rather than head back for dinner, just to see where they might be staying. 

At the inner gate the cart stops for inspection. Dean's close enough to see the moment the driver looks up.

He once took an arrow to the shoulder. A lucky strike, it passed clean through, and only bothers him sometimes in winter. At the time though, it felt like he'd been pierced by the sun; every nerve went up in flame.

That pain pales to nothing compared to what his heart feels now.

Even in the failing light Dean knows those eyes, the curve of that cheek. For a long moment he stands frozen. "Cas," he says, his voice stolen. He tries again, louder this time, almost falling down the stairs in his haste.

But the cart moves on and the gate closes with a clang.

Sam's waiting for him in his room when Dean returns.

"Dean," he says, in the tone that means Dean's not going to have a choice. "As head adviser, I could place you under house arrest. As your brother, I just want you to talk to me."

Dean opts to look out the window. "It's Cas."

Sam's face is at war with itself as he looks at Dean. Confusion, worry, alarm...hope? 

"I'm seeing him, Sam. First that night I got caught in the storm, at the window. Tonight at the town walls."

"That's...not possible. Right? You said yourself, you made it out and he didn't."

"But Sam we never found a body. What if..."

"Dean..."

"If he's out there, I need to find him."

"Your vigil starts tomorrow at sunset. You won't be able to leave the chapel until morning."

"I know."

"And Anna..."

"Even if he doesn't...want me now, she deserves to see her brother."

Sam's never mentioned the tattered cloak Dean keeps—the only trace of Cas they found—but he looked at Dean with the same pity then as he does now. Dean looks away.

"Alright," Sam says at last. "You say he's in town? Tomorrow we'll go look for him. Until sunset."

"Until sunset."

After dinner, where Anna sits five seats away, and Sam handles most of the smalltalk with visiting courtiers, and Bobby occasionally leans over to tell him to stop playing with his food, Dean retires to bed. Half an hour later, Sam appears. "I'll take the couch," he says.

"You don't need to..."

"Yes I do, Dean," Sam says. "Consider it compensation for...you know."

They sometimes talk about Jessica, but they never talk about Ruby. Dean feels the weight in Sam's words even if he can't see his face.

The night passes in silence. Neither sleeps much.

In the morning the attendants lay out the Coronation robes with much ceremony. Dean has to admit, they're beautiful, the work of many skilled hands:  rippling white silk shot with silver, deep blue studded with pearls, a collar of crystal and diamond. He's almost afraid to touch.

"How are you spending your last day as a Prince?" Charlie asks, throwing the ermine stole over her shoulder and posing in front of the mirror.

"Uh. Sam and I are going to do some brotherly bonding."

"You can't get  _ drunk  _ before your Coronation!"

"No! We're...gonna. Play chess."

Sam and Charlie both turn to stare at him simultaneously, and Dean feels his entire face go hot. He studies a spot on the rug with great interest. 

"What?" he asks. "Maybe I want to learn!"

"Yeah," Sam says, not quite hiding the note of panic. "We're gonna, uh...play chess."

After the door is bolted, and Charlie swears, with raised brows, that she'll inform the household not to disturb them, Sam rounds on him. "CHESS, Dean?"

"I panicked!" He grabs his drabbest cloak, and tosses another to Sam. "Look, let's just go. It's already getting late."

Cas' cloak and amulet are folded neatly together in Dean's bag, which he hoists over his shoulder. Sam pulls the wall sconce forward at the same time that Dean presses on the pentagram in the hearth, and the stone rolls aside to reveal a secret passage.

The passage spits them out in a street behind the chapel, beside a broken stone angel. ("I really should have that repaired," Dean thinks.) Then they turn the corner and Sam swears in a dead language, for it seems that the entire known world has made the city its temporary home.

"Dean, how're we ever gonna  _ find  _ him in this?" 

"We'll find him," Dean says grimly. Then he grins, and grips Sam's cloak. Just like when they were younger, and didn't want to get separated. "Lead the way, Crowdbreaker." 

Sam laughs. "Okay. Let's start near the lake."


	3. Chapter 3

The crowds press in on all sides, and they're both cross and sweaty by lunchtime. Dean's stomach roils with hunger and anxiety, and he longs for an apple pastry. He wants it so bad he can practically smell it.

Wait. He  _ can  _ smell it.

"Sam, let's take a break and get some food."

The scent of warm spices and sugar leads them not to the of expensive bakers on the front street, but to the communal ovens where the poorer families bake their bread. This late in the day it's mostly empty, save for one figure, wearing a tan hood and watching the flames closely.

Dean looks for the cart with the painted daffodil, but it's nowhere to be seen. There's only a reed basket that the man has filled with his wares. The disappointment stings, but the hunger is more acute, and Dean unthinkingly reaches into the basket to grab a fresh currant bun.

Three things happen at once: Sam shouts for him to wait; the man turns, lightning-quick to grab his arm; and Dean promptly stops breathing.

"I don't take kindly to stealing, boy," says a familiar voice, rolling through him like thunder. "If you're hungry, just ask."

"I..." Dean starts, but can't finish.

"Oh my god," Sam says, breathlessly.

"Emmanuel, is everything alright?" The voice that asks is sweet and clear, a woman's voice. 

Cas lets go of Dean's arm, but Dean feels the ghost of his touch linger. "Everything's fine, darling."

Dean's head turns of its own volition. He sees her: reddish hair, and a delicate face with wide green eyes. Her concerned look melts to a smile, and Dean wants to die. 

"Are you hungry? My husband's the best baker in the Kingdom."

"Yes, ma'am." Sam says, because Dean can't speak.

"Daphne is too modest," Cas—or whatever his name is now—says. "She taught me everything I know." Daphne blushes  and ducks back into the building where they seem to be lodging. 

"We. Have money," Sam says, eyeing Dean like he might randomly start screaming. Which he might.

Cas looks at him in evident concern. "Are you alright?"

Dean nods, tries to speak, but his tongue feels too big for his mouth. 

"My brother," Sam says, mercifully, "isn't much of a talker."

"Oh," Cas says gravely. He hands the currant bun back to Dean, and gives another to Sam."No need to pay me," Cas says, waving off the coin that Sam offers. "Consider it a gift." He watches them as they eat. "You two look familiar," he says. "What are your names?"

"UH." Dean says.

Sam blinks. "We're...Johns...sons. The Johnson brothers."

"Hunters," adds Dean.

"You're...both named Hunter Johnson?"

"Uh." Dean says again, shoving the remainder of the currant bun in his mouth.

"Dad...wasn't very creative," Sam says weakly.

"Mm," Cas says. "Would you like another?"

"How'd you meet your wife?" Dean blurts. 

"De-Hunter!" Sam says, glaring.

Cas blinks in surprise, then smiles. Dean can't tell if the smile's for him, or for the memory, but he'll take it. "Strange story. She was getting water from the river when she found me. I had no memory and, uh, no clothes."

"She," Dean says, "took in  an amnesiac naked man?"

(Then again, Dean's seen the nakedness in question, so maybe Daphne's choice makes some sense.) 

Cas looks embarrassed. "She's kind," he says. Then: "And she felt it was God's will." 

"Didn't you ever try to figure out where you came from? In case someone...might be missing you?"

"Missing me?" Cas asks, like he's never considered it before. He returns to his baking. "I...wondered, yes. But I had nothing. No clothes, no memory, not even a name. There was nowhere to go back to. And no one came looking."

"That's..." Dean begins. He shakes his head.

How can he explain that they had looked for years, even after they gave up the search for John? That Dean had been high up enough to see the moment that the water rose and swallowed up everything before it? That they'd searched, but never thought to look for a living person?

Dean swallows tightly. "It's good you've, you know. Found something.  Someone. And that you feel, um, nothing's missing."

Cas looked at him. "I didn't say that." 

"Oh."

"Anyway, gentlemen, I have work to do."

'No,' Dean thinks. 'This can't be it. This can't  be how this ends.'

"Do you..." Dean doesn't know what to ask.

Cas looks at him again.

"Do you have any apple pastries?"

Cas looks rueful. "No. Our supply spoiled on the way here. They're the Prince's favorite, I hear. I'm not sure what I'll do tomorrow. He doesn't seem the beheading kind, but..."

"He's not!" Dean says quickly. "Uh. And...we have apples!"

"What?" Sam and Cas say, simultaneously.

"In the Orchard."

"The Royal Orchard?" Sam asks, carefully.

"Yeah," Dean says. "We...work at the Palace. We can, uh, accompany you. After all, it'd make the  Prince happy, right?"

Cas is skeptical. 

"Look," Dean says, pulling aside his shirt collar. "We have tattoos of the Royal Seal." He looks at pointedly at  Sam, who frowns but follows suit, revealing a pentagram ringed by flames. "It's illegal to get one unless you're connected with the Palace, right?"

Cas considers. He's still shrewd and careful. Dean's afraid he'll say no.

But then, he's also the man who married a random woman who found him in a river 

"Alright," he says. "Give me a few moments to get ready."

Dean and Sam grin, broad, relieved smiles.

"Great!" Dean says.

"Dean!" Sam hisses at him, once Cas goes inside. "What exactly is your plan here?"

"I don't know!" Dean admits. "I just...need more time."

"Dean."

Dean pulls at his own hair in frustration. "He's got to remember. He's GOT to."

"Doesn't seem that way," Sam says, sounding sad.

Dean keeps the impending tears at bay. The sun's already getting low; he has no time to cry. "Maybe. But you heard him. He thinks no one looked for him. I have to at least try."

"If Anna sees..."

"Who's Anna?" Cas asks, stepping out.

"The Prince's fiancee," Sam says, then winces.

"Ah," says Cas, as he shoulders his basket.

"It's not official," Dean says sharply. 

"Still," Cas says, "I wish him happiness."

'Same' Dean thinks, feeling anything but. He pulls Sam aside to whisper. "Go on ahead. Alert the groundskeeper we're coming. Tell him to stay inside."

Sam nods once, sharply. Dean can tell he thinks it's a stupid idea, but going along with each other's stupid ideas is something they've done since boyhood. 

"Sa-My brother's just going to tell, uh, his boss that we'll have a guest, so I'll walk with you. Stick close. Please."

Cas does, walking so close to Dean as they navigate through the crowds that their hands brush occasionally.The urge to lace their fingers together is agonizing, but after years of talking to Cas' grave, he can't find words for the actual man.

"Not long," he manages, eventually.

'For God's sake,' he chides himself,  _ talk  _ to him.'

Nearby, a gang of children run shrieking, after an exuberant dog. One of them knocks Dean square against Cas' chest. "Oof!"

"Gracious," Cas says, and those are...those are his hands gripping Dean's waist. "Are you alright?”

Dean's not sure. It's been 6 years since he's seen this face from this close up. A kiss is a matter of inches. Less. Cas smells like the smoke from the ovens and the cinnamon from the dough, and it's—none of it—fair.

'Just get him somewhere quiet,' Dean thinks, and pulls away.

"Fine," he says.

"Your eyes..."

"Kid stepped on my foot. It's nothing. Come on, it's getting late."

Finally, they arrive. Not at the front gate, with its flags and sentries, but at the orchard gate, with its humble stone wall. Dean's heart pounds, but there's Sam, waving at them.

Dean doesn't have time to wonder about the vaguely wild look in his eye as he shoos them through the gate and shuts it behind them. The din of the city dies away at once, like diving into a cool, green pool. Dean takes a deep breath for what feels like the first time in months.

He turns to watch Cas' face, hoping for a flicker of recognition.

"It's beautiful," Cas says softly, and his look of soft awe is almost enough. "Some of these trees must be a hundred years old."

"Yeah," Dean says. "But that one's my favorite. It was a gift from a...good friend."

"A Royal Russet? Those are very rare."

"Yes," says Dean. "Tart on the outside, sweet on the inside. He said, uh. It reminded him of me."

"You must be..." Cas frowns, like he's working something out . "Very good friends."

"Yeah," says Dean. "Cas and I, we were very good friends."

They walk to the back, where the late season apples are ready for picking, and Cas smiles at the sight of them. "Thank you," he says. "I was so worried about tomorrow."

"Yeah, I get that." 

Sam's nowhere in sight, and Dean should wonder about that, but he's too busy watching Cas.

For a few moments the world is perfect: the rising green scent of spring, and apple blossoms, the wind in the trees, and Cas. But every paradise is temporary, and this is no different. 

"Well, well," says a slow, serpentine voice. "Truly these are the days of miracle and wonder."

Dean's blood ices over. "Meg."

"Hi there, lover boy."

Cas looks between them. "You two are..."

"No!" Dean says. "No. Meg works in the kitchen. Working off a debt." The T was honed to a point. "She was making a joke."

"Ah." Cas nods. "Colleagues."

"Sure," laughs Meg. "Colleagues.""Why are you here, Meg?" Dean asks. "Shouldn't you be helping get ready for the Coronation?"

The arch of her brow alerts him to his mistake. "I could ask you the same thing."

"Excuse us, Emmanuel," Dean says darkly, and drags Meg away by the arm.

"Really?" she sighs, but follows.

"Meg." Dean's voice is threatening, but there's also a fine line of panic running through it. "Your term can be extended."

"Legally, only by a year," she fires back. "Besides. I took care of him the first time he went nuts. Or did you forget?"

"No," Dean snaps, scowling.

He doesn't like to remember it, least of all the part that involved Cas kissing Meg instead of him. Still at least Cas knew who Dean was—who he was—who time. 

"It's the reason you've still got a head on your shoulders," Dean says.

"Hmm," Meg says. "You should tell him."

"Tell him? _Tell_ him?" Dean barely keeps his volume in check.

"Tell him."

"We don't know how he'll react. What it might do to him. You were there the first time. You know."

"I was," Meg says, inspecting her nails. "And who was it that snapped him back? Oh wait, that's right. You."

"I need time."

"That's the one thing you don't have, Your Highness." As ever, the title drips with sarcasm from her mouth. "So tell him, and..."

"Excuse me," says a voice behind them, making them jump.

Cas. 

"I...overhead." He frowns, looking lost. "I. Am I...are we... friends?"

Dean's mind goes so blank, it screams. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but—

"Just a dollop," says Meg.

"Meg."

"Bestest friends, actually," Meg continues, smiling and merciless. "Fought side by side for years. Did a lot of other things, too."

Dean closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, Cas is staring at him, the way only Cas can. Even when he's someone else, he's still himself.

"It's true," Dean says. His voice breaks over the word. "We were friends."

"Wait. Am I...am I Cas?"

Dean nods, wordless.

"I...don't remember you. I'm sorry."

Dean's heart squeezes itself into an agonizing, unnatural shape and he briefly wonders if he's been struck by a curse."We met...a long time ago.  You, uh, you rode at the head of the vanguard."

"Why  wouldn't you tell me? That sounds pleasant."

Meg laughs.

"It's not," Dean says.

"It was bloody and brutal, and you were good at it."

"I'm just a baker," Cas says, sounding desperate.

"You saved my life."

"I..."

"You used to dream of falling off a cliff like your brother."

"I...have nightmares of falling off a cliff. Someone always catches me."

"It's me."

"She called you..." Cas says, and Dean almost forgot how quick and calculating those eyes could be. "Your name's not Hunter Johnson, is it?"

"Hunt—" Meg begins, then makes a strange sound. "I should go." And then they're alone.

"No," Dean says, wretched. "I'm Dean Winchester."

Cas' face undergoes a rapid series of changes, and Dean sees what's coming. He grabs Cas by the shoulder just as he starts to move.

"Don't." 

"I..."

"If you bow to me I'll throw myself in the river. Please don't."

"Alright. But tell me..."

Sam's arrival cuts Cas' request short.

Sam is breathless and wild-eyed. "Dean! I mean..."

"He knows, Sam."

If Sam's surprised he doesn't show it. "Great. But you need to go  _ now _ ."

"But."

"Look! Look at the sky, Dean."

Somehow it had grown dark when he wasn't watching. One by one, the torches spring up along the walls.

Sam seizes his cloak, maybe expecting him to run, or throw a punch. (It's happened before, god knows.) But his face is full of worry, and  he's not the Prince's head advisor, he's just Dean's little brother.

"Go, before they see you're gone. I'll handle this Dean. I promise."

Dean is less than 24 hours from being the most powerful man in the country—a title he knows he'll never wear comfortably—but he's powerless here, now. But after the war, after Ruby, after tears, and fights, he still trusts Sam. For once, he lets himself be led. 

"Okay, Sammy."

He grants himself one last look back at Cas, who watches him in silence, a familiar sight, now newly strange. As he hurries away, he hears Sam:

"Listen, uh. Cas. Emmanuel. You're not under arrest, but..."


	4. Chapter 4

Dean shakes his head and sprints with hunt-won speed toward the palace. He throws himself through the hidden passage, landing on his hands and knees, and kicks it closed. He can hear the jangle and murmur of the guards outside his door. He strips off his old walking clothes with frantic hands and shoves them under the bed, along with Cas' things.

"Coming!" Dean yells, just as the knocking on the door grows impolite. He turns the lock and greets Bobby's startled face.

Bobby takes it in: the sweat on Dean's brow, the breathing he can't quite keep even, his mad eyes. His nakedness.

"Chess, huh," Bobby says, after a pause.

Dean shifts on his feet. "It got...heated. Sam's, uh. Sam's horse was trying to...climb my tower." He coughs delicately, looking away.

"Uh huh." Bobby says, frowning behind his beard. Then: "You need a bath, son. No way they're letting you in the chapel covered in...chess dirt."

Dean nods, suddenly aware of the honor guards in the shadows behind Bobby and...oh god, that's Victor. The last living son of a neighboring king, an old war ally. And the finest officer in the police force. Dean's only just gotten the guy to like him.

Dean covers himself. "Yep!"

He grabs a towel from the hook. As he tries to shuffle through the crowd to the bath chamber, Bobby blocks his way. "Uh," Dean says.

"I'll go with you," Bobby says.

"I know how to bathe on my own, Bobby. I'm not a kid."

"Ain't that. Gotta make sure you don't...play chess again."

"But Bobby..."

Bobby leans in close so the others can't hear. "I may've been born at night, Dean, but it wasn't last night."

Dean nods again, this time in defeat. "Alright but can it be...someone else?"

"Victor?"

Victor's eyes widen.

"No, thank you," Dean wheezes. 

"Then who?"

Dean realizes he's supposed to say Sam. Sam, who is currently not-arresting the man-who-isn't-Castiel. 

"Uh," he says. He casts around for another brother. "Charlie!"  _ Close enough.  _

"Charlie? Your intelligence adviser, Charlie?"

"That Charlie." Dean grins, all charm and no guile.

Charlie looks like she's been hit in the face with a fish when she arrives. When they're alone, she says, "Dean, as pretty as you are, I'm not feeling this. Ever."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But I need a babysitter, and you're it. Keep me company while you finish polishing your armor."

With that, he pulls the linen screen across the front of the tub, then steps into the bath that's been drawn for him. There's rose petals in it, for some reason, but that doesn't stop his sigh of pleasure as he sinks into the hot water. 

"I guess Bobby was right," he admits.

There's a brief period of silence before Dean hears Charlie move around, presumably rifling through the drawers and cabinets where Sam stores his dizzying array of toiletries. (Most of which, Dean admits, are very good.)

"Something's bothering you," Charlie says, almost-casual.

Damn it,  he should've gone with Victor.

"Something's always bothering me," Dean says, instead of answering. "My personality is just...being bothered by things and drinking."

"You know that's not true," Charlie says mildly. "Dean..."

"Hey, try the angelica oil," Dean interrupts.

"What?" 

"In the blue bottle with the green lid. Blessed by seven priestesses for protection. More importantly, ladies love the way it smells."

"Ooh." Soon the fresh, woody scent rises through the steam. 

"We're finding you a wife before summer."

She laughs. Dean's off the hook.

"Speaking of angels, I hear Anna Milton's family is descended from them."

Or not.

"She'd be a good wife," Charlie says. "And she's gorgeous."

"Yes."

"Family trait, huh." She speaks carefully. "Everyone says her twin brother was...dreamy."

"Yes," he manages, and sinks down.

Charlie's persistent in a different way to Sam, but Dean's a world-class expert in avoidance, and she gets nothing else out of him.

The tolling of the hour is almost a relief. "Avert your gaze!" he yells, teasing, as he gets out of the water, and she runs laughing from the room.

Tradition dictates that Dean must fast for the rest of the night. He'd always thought it was a stupid rule and planned to break it. Now he's glad he doesn't have to explain his lack of appetite. He always hated the thought of someone dressing him, like a child. Now he's relieved.

He can feel the night pressing in, the late hour creeping up the back of his neck. There's no sign from Sam, or Cas. The birds have all gone to roost and won't tell him anything.

Finally he's ready: splendid in blue and white, collared with diamonds, and completely overwhelmed.

With every step toward the gleaming chapel windows, Sam's absence weighs more heavily. He's supposed to be here. He's supposed to be the last face Dean sees as the door closes. The vow of silence means no one will ask tonight, but everyone's glancing sidelong at the empty space.

Ten paces from the entrance, there's a wordless commotion. Dean's by someone he only knows by sight, a friend of John's. His eyes strain to see and...That's Sam, rushing to his spot.  Dean walks faster than he should, but they'll just have to scold him tomorrow, when he's King.

He slows near Sam. He reads him the way a parent does their child, quickly and completely, and what he sees worries him. 

Sam's wearing his good cloak, but underneath he's still wearing his walking clothes. He's pulled his hair back, revealing what appears to be a black eye.

He stops by Sam for a split second, the longest he dares. He feels Sam press something into his hand, and keeps walking. They stare at each other as the chapel door thuds. The key turns and the bells sound.

Dean's alone until dawn.

He looks at what Sam gave him. It's a note.

He looks around, but of course he's alone. This is his family's private chapel-within-a-chapel. It's windowless and thick-walled, more cave than cathedral. A single bench faces the altar, where he's supposed to spend the night reflecting on his sins.

He sits, and opens the note.

The slip of paper in his hand is thin, totally unlike vellum or writing paper. It's almost like...

Baker's parchment.

It takes awhile for Dean's eyes to adjust. Thankfully, the note is short. (But then again, so is a lightning strike.)

"I remember you. I remember everything."


	5. Chapter 5

Dean paces fretfully, unthinking, like a caged wolf. The note is crushed in his fist, and he flattens it out to read and re-read. Two lines. It's more than he hoped for, yet it's a new kind of agony. Cas remembers, but does he still...?

He strikes a wall, but the wall is unmoved.

A moment later, though, the wall...responds. Two dull but deliberate bangs vibrate in Dean's ears. He waits for his heart to restart, then repeats the noise he just heard.

It happens again. Then, again, but now it's a foot to his left. He eagerly moves that way, and replies.

As this strange conversation continues, Dean ends up behind behind the altar. He knocks twice, but this time there's no answer. He does it again. Again, nothing.  Again. The silence grows fangs and threatens to rip him apart.

Then, after an eternity, two knocks, near the floor.

He sits, not minding the dust on the hem of his robe.

Wait. Dust? This place was scoured from floor to ceiling yesterday. How could there be...

He sees it, and remembers. When he was younger, this wall fell and was repaired. There is still a gap.

"Dean?"

He blinks. "Castiel?"

"Hello, Dean."

His overstretched nerves can't take it. He starts crying even as he smiles, and he's happy there's no one here to see.

"Hi," he says. "I...got your note."

Cas sounds fretful. "I'm sorry I didn't have time to write more. We ran out of time."

"We?"

"Sam and me."

His mind is still racing in ten directions at once. "Cas. What...happened?"

There's a pause.

"Considering everything that's happened in the last six years, you'll have to be more specific."

Dean rolls his eyes and it feels like rejoicing.

"How'd you get your memory back?"

"Oh."

Dean shifts until he's sitting cross-legged, his palms against the wall, like it might melt from the heat of them and let him touch Cas.

"I got into an altercation."

"With Sam?" He recalls the bruise blooming on Sam's face.

"No," says Cas. "With some hunters who came for Daphne."

"Hunters?" Dean knows he's kind of a dick, but he's not enough of dick to wish death on an innocent woman, even if she is married to Cas. "Why? Were they mine?"

"They said she's a witch."

Dean frowns. "Half the women in the county are witches." That had been a difficult lesson.

"An Epimeliad witch."

"That's impossible. No one's seen a nymph in 500 years."

"Well, I married one. Or," he pauses, "the granddaughter of one."

"No."

"No? My family tree is full of nephilim but you find this impossible to believe? Dean, what have I said about having faith?"

'It died with you,' he thinks, resting his forehead against the cold wall. He wonders if Cas is doing the same. "Is your...your wife alright?"

"Hard to tell," Cas says, rueful.

He forces his mind away from bitter thoughts. For now. "If my men hurt her, I'll give you justice."

"Still righteous as ever."

He hears the smile in Cas' voice, and it makes him ache in all the places he thought were numb forever.

Cas continues. "There were twelve of them in all. Young men, too young to be veterans, I hope."

"Wait, you and Sam against _twelve_ armed hunters?"

"Yes," Cas says. "Apparently I...remembered my training. Though I didn't realize it until that moment."

Cas and Sam. Sam's never been quite as skilled at hand-to-hand as Dean—that explains the black eye—but he's still a deadly force. And Cas.

"Those poor bastards," Dean says.

"Mm," Cas agrees. "I think they'll recover. Sam was able to, um, prevent me from using the full extent of my expertise."

"Oh," Dean says, "that's good." They'll be in the infirmary. In the morning he'll send a message for them to held for questioning. "I wish I could've seen it."

"I'm glad you didn't," Cas replies. Then: "I was happy just being a baker."

"A baker, huh," Dean says, and there's the bitterness, spilling out. "No ties to the outside world, just a unnoticed little life with your devoted, uh, witch-wife."

"Yes. Wouldn't most people want that?"

Damn it, Cas knows. There were times, sleeping in the mud before a siege or battle, that he imagined the same thing. He doesn't know which of them would be the witch-wife in this scenario but...

"Well, you," he starts, roughly. "You're welcome to it."

"I missed you, Dean."

"You didn't even remember me."

"True. Still, I did miss you. Yours was the voice I was always listening for and could never hear."

Wait. "You're quoting lyrics. _You’re_ quoting lyrics to _me_?"

Cas' laugh slips silvery through the wall. "Yes."

Another tear falls. "I looked for you."

"I know. Sam told me."

"I didn't think..."

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. No one else survived. I shouldn't have either."

"But you did." Their last night together rushes back. It's not a good memory. They fought; over tactics, over Sam's self-sacrificing plan, over the future.

"We didn't part on good terms," Cas says, as though he can hear Dean's thoughts. "But I intended to make it up to you when I returned."

"Me too."

"I'd..." Cas falters. "I'd still like to. In whatever way I can."

Dean swallows the lump in his throat, which might be his heart. "How is Daphne?" he asks again, because he wants to know, and because he has no other means of hurting himself right now.

"Uh," Cas says.

"Tell me what she needs, and I'll get it done."

"She's. She seems to be in some kind of...unbreakable sleep."

"They put her in a coma?"

"No."  

In the space before Cas resumes, Dean dimly hears the Nocturn bells. How many is that? He's stuck until the ringing of the Lauds, but is that 6 hours from now, or only 2? The lack of windows is maddening.

"Epimeliads could shape-shift from tree to human, according to Sam. But..."

"But she's not a full-blooded nymph," Dean finishes, chewing on his thumbnail as he thinks.

"Right. It was a self defense mechanism and she...uh. As the men came in, she kissed me, and then fell over. Like she was saying goodbye. Her hair turned white."

"Like apple blossoms."

"Mm-hm. Uh." He sounds really nervous. "When it was...done. When we'd, um, neutralized the threat, I tried to wake her." A heavy pause. "Sam says that, according the Lore, they can be awakened by..."

Dean groans inwardly. "Don't say true love's kiss."

"True love's kiss."

"Right."

Cas clears his throat. "It didn't work."

"It, wait. It didn't?"

"No. Either that only works on actual nymphs or..."

"Or she was saying goodbye." Dean's nerves fizz with something, joy and fear mingled, something wonderful to the point of pain. Still. "Where is she now?"

"Safe."

The way he says it leaves no room for discussion. "I'm..." Dean stops before the word 'sorry'. He doesn't want to lie to Cas. "I mean. It's rough, losing someone you, uh. Love."

"Yes," Cas says, so quietly Dean can barely hear him. "Yes, it is. We've done a lot of it, you and I."

Dean nods, even though Cas can't see it.

"Dean," Cas says. Then again, like he's priming himself to say something: "Dean. No matter else happens, with, um. With your coronation and with...Anna..."

Oh god, Sam must've said something. "No, Cas, listen..."

"I'm glad I remembered."

"I won't marry her," Dean says, louder than he means to.

"But she's from a good family," Cas says, sharply. "Our father not withstanding."

"Yes," Dean says.

"Smart."

"Damn right."

"A celebrated beauty."

"A knockout."

"Her tactical skills helped win the war."

"I owe her a lot."

"She'd make a fine queen," Cas says.

"Are you seriously trying to play matchmaker with me and your sister right now?"

"Anna's the perfect choice. She's everything you could possibly want."

"She's not _you_ , dumbass."

"Oh." Cas goes quiet for a worryingly long time. "But Dean..."

"No, listen. I get it, okay? I do. You just lost someone important, and I might as well be a stranger, right? So if you don't want to...that's. That's fine. But I can't marry Anna, not now that I know you're here."

"I do want to," Cas says quickly. "But I'm not good luck, Dean."

Dean shakes his head. "No, you're not. But give me a room full of all the eligible women and men in this place and...I'd rather have you, cursed or not. Anyway, we're all cursed. Do I seem like good luck to you?"

Cas laughs again, that small sound Dean loves. "Alright, but..."

There's a muffled crashing sound on the other side of the wall, and Dean presses his ear against it. "Cas, what's going on over there?"

"Shhh. Someone's...Don't say anything."

Dean strains his hearing to the limit.  The minutes stretch by.

"I have to go," Cas whispers, urgent.

"What? No."

Cas whispers, even lower,"I'm sorry, Dean. Just...wait for me."

Dean hears more noises through the wall, and then stillness. His mind and stomach churn like the sea in a storm, but he holds his tongue; he keeps holding it.

The last Nocturn rings.

Two more hours.


	6. Chapter 6

In the morning, at the last note of the Angelus, the door swings wide. The honor guards find Dean sitting behind the altar, with his forehead to the wall, in darkness. They murmur something about his righteousness, his penitence, and hang back. 

It's Sam who crouches next to him.

"Dean, it's over. You did it."

"He left, Sam."

Sam speaks gently. "We'll find him again. Have faith." 

Dean's so tired. "You sound just like him."

Sam smiles. "He's a smart guy. Now come on, your kingdom awaits."

Dean looks at him."Don't you dare bow, Sammy."

Sam smiles harder.

Sam helps him to his feet, and his joints protest after the long night on the cold floor. He shakes out his robes, until they lie smooth and shining. "Alright," he says, like he's about mount an attack. "We've got work to do." And right now, that work involves breakfast.

Sam's eyebrows raise to dangerous heights. Before Dean can stop him, calls out: "Long live the king!" and bows in the most obnoxious display of courtesy Dean's ever seen. The other guards follow, and while they're distracted, Dean kicks Sam in the shin. 

"Ow!" But Sam's grinning.

Breakfast is lavish and loud. The Hall is bursting with people in their most colorful clothes, swirling like butterflies. The long tables are piled high with roasted meats, sweet fruits and chocolates, and warm cakes. Hunger nips sharply at Dean's stomach as he takes his seat.

Anna sits to his right, closer than before. Her lovely bright hair catches the sun, and she smiles at some joke of Sam's, but her eyes are sad as always. He needs to tell her. He stops eating and waves to a nearby guard.

"An—Miss Milton will ride with Sam and me in the parade."

"Oh," he says, "make sure the hunters who were taken to the infirmary last night don't leave. Victor's gonna ask them some questions."

Breakfast is cleared away, and Dean's escorted to the gate in a cloud of confetti and and exuberant shouting, which grows louder as he waves.

There's a momentary hush as the crown is taken from its box, glittering in the sun. Then the priest sets it on Dean's head, and the crowd roars. 

'Now for the dog and pony show,' he thinks. He takes Anna's hand to help her into the open carriage, then he and Sam climb in, too.

The whole country seems to be in the streets, enjoying the People's Breakfast that Dean's ordered, shouting to see him. He feels dizzy. He's never liked being the center of attention, and thoughts of Cas keep hitting him unexpectedly. He waves and smiles and waits for it to end.

"Dean, what's the matter?" Anna asks, with her intense eyes on his. He's grateful to her for using his name.

"Uh." God it's so loud. "I need to talk to you about something."

"Oh," she says, looking away. "I...suspected you might want to ask me..."

"It's about Castiel."

"What?"

"Your brother."

She frowns. "I know who he was."

"Not was," Dean says. "Is."

She stares at him. He keeps waving, because his life is a farce.

"Anna..."

There's a tug on his sleeve. "Dean," Sam says.

"Not now, Sam!"

"Look!"

Dean does as he's told and has to sit down.

It's Castiel.

Anna stands, struck dumb, as the the sound of the crowd is overtaken by the ringing in Dean's ears. 

"How'd he get up there?" Sam asks, though Dean barely hears it. For Cas has scaled the remains of the Old Tower, where the first Queen (Dean's namesake) founded the city. Even here, Dean feels Cas' sharp eyes on him, keener than any knife, and remembers that last battle, when their positions were reversed. 

He knows he's meant to make a speech when the parade returns to the palace. All his ancestors did. Those are the rules.

He's not going to.

He stands again, and Anna sags against him. She once clung to his arms in the middle of the night, but it's the first time she's shown any weakness in public. "I'll bring him back," Dean says.

She nods, still mute.

The carriage turns. They stare at the tower until it disappears.

"Change of plans," Dean says to Sam as they near the gates. "You're giving the speech."

" _ What? _ Dean, the new king..."

"The new king's making new rules." Dean removes his cloak so it doesn't get in the way.

The carriage halts in front of the palace steps, and Dean leaps out.

He rushes upstairs, past startled butlers and a pair of kitchen girls as they kiss in a dark corner. "Sorry!" he shouts. He grabs a few things from his room, then hurries out the servants' entrance to the stables. Today it's empty of horses and people. Except one:

"Hello, Baby."

Her ears prick forward at his voice. She's seen him faithfully through many battlefields, and her ink-dark coat is scarred, but she's still fast and sure. He slips the bridle on her beautiful head, and fastens the saddle. He can feel her strain with the urge to run.

"Let's go."

He doesn't need to spur her on. Like him, her greatest joy is on the road, covering swift miles. The palace square will be impassable, so he turns them toward the gardens, and the fields beyond. They surge forward, as close as a shadow and its source.

Soon, the tower is in sight.

They crest the hill and Dean stops, shielding his eyes. The tower seems as vacant as ever, with only a few crows gathered at the base. But then Dean sees him, emerging from the dark doorway, striding into the daylight. The crows call out and fly away, their black wings flashing.

Dean dismounts and stands, dazzled, before he remembers himself and marches up the hill. Their eyes never leave each other for even a moment, and Dean's breathless by the time they're finally standing face-to-face.

"I thought I told you to wait for me," Cas says, eyes alight.

Dean stares. "I did six years of waiting. I'm done." 

There's a flash of uncertainty. Cas squints. "You're d—"

Dean doesn't let him finish, catching him and pulling him into a kiss. His grip is just shy of merciless, as though Cas might disappear in the wind like thistledown.

"Oh," Cas says, when they finally break apart. He sounds dazed, like he's just taken a long drink of apple brandy. 

"Cas," Dean says, ducking his head but not letting go, "I know you're married, so I won't..."

"I think," Cas interrupts, "by Epimeliad standards, I'm now divorced."

They kiss for a long while after that, first with urgency, and then slowly, sheltering in the sweet, cool grass, until Dean loses all sense of time.

A cough breaks the spell. They look up to see Sam, waiting in the lengthening shadows. 

"Uh," Dean says, pulling his shirt closed.

"Sam," Cas says, seemingly in no hurry to push Dean off of him.

"I've been standing in the woods calling you for twenty minutes," Sam says sourly.

"Sorry," Dean says, getting to his feet and grabbing Cas' hand.

Sam makes a disbelieving sound, watching them arrange themselves.

"Where's Baby?" Dean asks, conscious of the heat in his face as Cas walks next to him.

"Went home for dinner, because she's smart. But. There's someone else here." He stops at the edge of the woods and waits.

"Anna!" Castiel exclaims, and runs to her. Dean looks away, smiling.

"Oh," Dean says, after the crying and the hugging have subsided. "I had something for Cas in my bag."

"This?" Anna asks, holding it up. 

Cas looks at him curiously. "A gift?"

"Kind of." Dean unwraps Cas' old cloak first and puts it in his hands.

"You kept it all these years?"

"Part of me hoped you'd come back." Dean says. "And, here." He unwraps the smaller item, and Cas gasps. "It was my coronation gift from Anna, but," he says, pinning it to Cas' shirt, "I think it looks better on you."

"Now," says Sam, whose eyes are suspiciously red. "Let's go."

They make their way back with unhurried steps, despite Sam's insistence. There's simply too much laughing and hugging to be done for anyone to move quickly, and Dean watches Anna and Cas grapple affectionately with each other, like children, as the fireflies rise from the grass.

There is no herald at their approach. Inside the palace, the festivities continue, with music and chatter splashing through the courtyard and carrying on the breeze. 

"You two go ahead, Sam," Dean says. "We'll be in in just a minute."

Sam and Anna look skeptical, but continue on.

"What..." Cas says.

Dean hushes him and leads him to the orchard, where so much happened only 24 hours ago.

"I'll marry Anna if you want," Dean says, artlessly, to Cas' stunned face. "But I'd rather marry you. If I can."

"Are you...of course I don't want you to marry my sister!"

"I...knew that," Dean stammers. "I just...you know, wanted to..."

Cas kisses him, and makes him forget whatever lie he was forming. 

"Though," Cas says, almost-smiling. "I suppose we should ask ourselves what attributes are best for a queen. I probably have none of them."

There's so much to do. There's so much that could go wrong. This isn't how this story's supposed to go, and Dean's thrilled. "Hm," he says. "You're right. What are we gonna do?"

"Well, we'll just have to make it up as we go."

They link hands and walk, together, into the palace.

**Author's Note:**

> This was such a weird, challenging, and frankly, fun, thing to write. I started it because someone (WEBOVERLOAD) shared a picture of Jensen Ackles dressed as King Bacchus. I wrote most of it while travelling, on planes, trains, and buses, when all I had was my phone and I couldn't easily access my main WIP, Liberty Bonds. It's been a nice break from the heaviness of WWI!


End file.
